We had some friends over last night. Good food, good wine, good company. Did I mention good wine? This morning, my synapses are not firing as quickly as usual. Colleen has headed off to work and I am now editing posts, answering e-mails and building a few websites for some clients. It’s tough sledding when your brain is not in gear, but I trudge on towards the completion of the tasks at hand.

Dog or Salmon?

Several hours later, around 11:00 AM,  my very faithful companion Jazz Dog, a chocolate Labrador Retriever, is gently nudging me. It’s time for a walk! I save my work, get up and head downstairs to the basement where his leash awaits.

Walking Jazz is an interesting experience. He has two modes. One mode is like walking a salmon. Have you ever landed a salmon on a hand-held fishing rod (not a downrigger)? Salmon “run” – they go left, right, left, forward, full speed back under your boat, left, right … it’s dizzying. Jazz walks like this. His other mode is like walking an anchor. Jazz was born to sniff the world. Our previous Black Lab, Pharaoh, was a retriever in every sense of the word. He was a dog that would play fetch all day long. Jazz prefers games like find it, at which he excels. When he is in mode two, he walks like a hound dog: nose to the ground and lots of snorting sounds. When he finds something of interest, he lowers his center of gravity, digs in with his claws and there is no way you are going to move him. Those walks are much longer. Stop. Sniff sniff sniff. Go … STOP … etc.

Today, however, Jazz, is a Coho.

We walk down our street, turn right up the next one and then left on Moresby Park Terrace. As we walk, I adjust my step and fall into the rhythm of walking a salmon. My mind starts to wander and I find myself thinking about War Of The Worlds. We’ve seen the latest version with Tom Cruise and I have been thinking lately that I would like to watch it again. In my mind, I flip back and forth between the original and this latest version, thinking about various scenes and wondering how it would feel to see one of those giant tripods appearing before my eyes.

A sharp pull to the left brings me back to the moment. I am walking a salmon and he is intent on going in every which way. We get to the top of Moresby Park Terrace, round the cul-de-sac and start heading back down the street. Suddenly, Jazz flips into mode two, digs in and starts to investigate something with his super refined olfactory abilities. A reprieve! We have come to a full stop and I am glad for it. I relax and my eyes wander down the street. All of a sudden, on the horizon, a black ball … with eyes!

The black ball slowly rises, revealing a tripod of sorts beneath it. What the hell is that? I watch the scene unfold wondering if thinking my War Of The Worlds thoughts had perhaps been a bad idea. As it rises higher on the horizon I see something metallic under the tripod. It’s the roof of a car … it’s … the Google Street View Car!

Right at that moment I realize that the leash has gone totally slack. Did I lose my catch? I turn to look and Jazz is doing what dogs are suppose to do on walks. Relieving himself. A number two. Oh my God … this is being filmed!

Instinctively, I grab a bag and do what responsible dog owners do. Pick up the poo. WAIT! This is being filmed! I turn and the car is upon us, rounding the cul-de-sa. We’re doomed!

The one I saw had a black ball

As the car heads down the road, my eyes never leave it despite the fact that Jazz is back in salmon mode. We finish our walk and head home.

Later that day, I am speaking on the phone with then Editor In Chief of Life As A Human, Kerry Slavens, and I tell her about the incident. She tells me I must write this down as it would make for a funny story. I decide that “Close Encounters Of The Google Kind” would make a great title, and Kerry heartily agrees. But … what about photos … what about street view … what will Google show?

May 2013

Shortly after this happened, I also mentioned the incident to another good friend, Lochinvar, our Software Development Manager at Life As A Human. He told me it can take 18 months or more for Google to refresh Street View data. That’s why I waited. Well, the data is now refreshed.

I have walked this street back and forth with Street View and much to my relief, other than the telling of it in this post, our integrity is intact.

Then … I remembered Bing’s Birds Eye View.

We’re doomed!

Photo Credits

Jazz Dog – by Gil Namur – All Rights Reserved

War Of The Worlds – Wikimedia Public Domain

Street View – Screen Cap From Google Street View

Google Street View Car – by Ian Muttoo on Flickr – Some Rights Reserved

First published on Fri, Jun 7, 2013. Updated on Aug 11, 2023

When I was a kid, I hated school. I just didn’t want to be there; I wanted to be at home with my mom. It seemed like cruel and unusual punishment to be sent off every morning in rain, snow, sleet or heat. I went to a Catholic school just down the street from where I lived. It was a pleasant enough place, I suppose. The church was right across the street and back then it was a big part of our education.

In 1963 I was in kindergarten. At the time, it was run out of the church basement, and really wasn’t much of a learning centre. It was a small room with some toys, books and a few puzzles. But I felt a more urgent need to be outside. I’d often ride my tricycle, a honking big green trike, to kindergarten. I’d then spend most of my time on it, outside on those beautiful days riding around the church parking lot. That is until the teacher, who was an elderly woman, would come out and tell me to put my bike away and come and learn some letters. I didn’t enjoy being told to put my bike away. In fact, feeling part of the whole school experience was few and far between for me. School, from my perspective, was a place where freedom didn’t exist. And it was hard to listen to this woman who, it seemed to me, should have been at home knitting baby sweaters for her grown children. I’m sure I didn’t think that back then, but I think that now. And perhaps she wasn’t as old as I remember. She may have been my age now for all I know, but at the time she seemed really, really old.

One thing I do remember about those kindergarten days was the day President Kennedy was shot. I remember being there playing, then all of a sudden there seemed to be this huge commotion going on, with adults running in and out of the room. Someone, I recall, found a television and proceeded to turn it on. I remember my teacher crying. Then all of a sudden my mother showed up, which was really odd because my mother would never take me home unless there was some sort of emergency. She did try to tell me what was happening but all I remember is the sadness of the adults, and the tears. Also, it seemed to me they were fearful. That day, like others that would follow, would ultimately become embedded in my mind. The feeling of loss and sadness still resonates with me today.

One cold, blustery winter morning, when I was a year older and in grade one, I spent several hours playing on a snow hill just down the street from my house. It must have been just after one of those great big snow storms, as I was having a wonderful time making angels in the snow. The street was so quiet, the sounds muffled by all the snow that had just fallen. The sky was a perfect blue and the sun was shining. I was quite happy playing out in that snow bank. Unfortunately the woman who lived across the street from that snow bank felt differently.

I remember her coming up to me. “Hello, are you Martha?”

“Yes,”  I responded.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school, Martha?”

“I think so.” Now I was feeling like I was being interrogated.

“Ok, well why don’t I take you home?”

“Okay,” I said, not thinking it was going to turn out so wrong once we got to our front door.

“Hello, Joan,” the woman said to my mother at the door. “I found something that I think belongs to you. She was playing outside our house. She’d been there for quite some time and was sure she must be bitterly cold so I thought I’d bring her home to you.” 

“Well, thank you,” my mom replied.

Once the woman left, my mom’s demeanor completely changed. “Martha, what were you thinking? Why aren’t you in school? You have to go to school!” she yelled. She yelled a bit more, then grabbed her coat and hauled me off by the scruff of the neck all the way to school. That was one of the most embarrassing events of my life. It was awful arriving to class, when all the other kids were seated properly at their desks, being dragged into the room by my mother. Me crying, her crying; it was not a pleasant scene. And then after my mother left I got yelled at some more by the nun who was my teacher. I tuned out most of her yelling and looked out the window at the beautiful day I was missing.

From then on, school was just not the place I wanted to be. And even though I never went to university, I did, at the tender age of forty-nine, receive my diploma from Vanier, Quebec’s CEGEP (General and Vocational College) in Early Childhood Education.

Ironic the way life works, isn’t it?

Photo Credit
Photo courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

On this particular day, Mom needed a ride to the bank. She loved going to the bank. Everyone there knew Joan Farley. They knew her because she had run a business for many years and had spent a lot of time there. She prided herself on being a customer for over fifty years.

That day, the bank was having a bake sale as a fundraiser for a local charity. Mom, of course, wanted to look at the baking after she finished her banking. So when she finished up with the teller, we wandered over to the baking table where we ran into Mary, one of Mom’s past employees. There we were, minding our own business, talking shop as they say, when Mary gave me a look. I tried to read her lips but to no avail. I got closer and she whispered, “The bank is being robbed!”

My heart skipped a beat or two. Surely, Mary, you’re wrong about this! I thought to myself.

I then said to her, “Well, nice to see you Mary. Come on Mom, we’d better get going!”

I turned my mom toward the door. She grabbed my arm and we walked toward the exit, but there was someone standing there and he wasn’t a security guard. I looked at him and he shook his head ‘no’, then opened his coat to reveal a shotgun. Okayyy then!

I turned Mom around and said, “Well, maybe I’ll go back and look at the goodies again, Mom.”

“All right, dear,” she replied.

The last time I’d been in a robbery with my mother was when we went to Frontier Town when we were kids. We were on a train and the cowboys got on and asked for our money. I think my mom hit one of them with her purse on that particular day. She was a lot younger then.

On this day, everything happened so fast. There was a flash of someone running through the bank, jumping up over the counter and asking the tellers to empty their cash. At this point I had my mom sitting in a chair next to a wall. She, at the time, was showing signs of Alzheimer’s and I was terrified she would say something to these two guys. Stuff only my mother would say to strangers robbing a bank. Things like, “Now you two boys, what are you doing this for?” Or, “ You know it’s a sin to steal.” Or, “If your mother knew what you were doing today!” Mom was not shy about speaking her mind, that we all knew, and Mary kept looking over at me, probably thinking the same thing: I hope your mother doesn’t say anything! Mom was in the helping business, so I was sure she was going to suggest something for them to do other than rob banks.

The inside of the bank was so quiet. All you could hear was the money going into the guy’s bag. Thankfully they didn’t ask us to lie on the floor and they didn’t take any of our personal belongings or money. Knowing my mom, she probably withdrew at least a couple of hundred dollars. I was quietly holding my breath, hoping we’d get out of the whole thing alive. We had no idea what these two guys were capable of.

As quickly as they came in, they were gone. We were all very quiet when they first left. I guess everyone was in shock. Eventually there was a collective sigh of relief, and then the police showed up. I was a complete wreck, crying and shaking. I was so worried about my mom, and worried she would do something due to her Alzheimer’s. When it was over I was just so relieved, like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

At one point, one of the police officers came over to my mom and me and asked how we were. My mom, in her usual fashion, looked at the officer and said, “Well I’m fine, but my daughter here is a mess!”

Thanks Mom!

Photo Credit

Photo by Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Apart from horror scenes from a movie, my other reason for ‘dentist anxiety’ is, as a kid I had a dentist who I swear would smoke in the room while he was checking your teeth out. His hands smelled like cigarettes. No such thing as hygiene in those days. He didn’t wear gloves either! It was just the worst place on earth. Maybe he was the dentist from Marathon Man? If I hadn’t known better I might have thought his so-called office was a hidden torture chamber set up by spies. I mean, he was that creepy! So a creepy, smelly dentist from my childhood and a horrific scene from a movie really put a bad taste in my mouth for dentists (excuse the pun.)

Afraid is not the word. A panic attack in full swing, shaking, nervous, bordering on passing out is how I get in the dentist chair. As I said though, all the staff at our dentist office know me pretty well now and try to make the experience as pleasant as possible. If it can, indeed, be pleasant. Just the sound of the drill makes my heart skip a beat, and not in a lovey-dovey kind of way. I swear I’ve seen the face of God looking down on me in that chair, with my mouth wide open, drooling saliva all over the place. What does God think of me sitting there, holding onto my shorts like it’s the end of the world? But it isn’t, it’s just that your mind kind of gets lost in the scraping and pulling and pushing and spraying. My eyes are always closed because I don’t want to see what’s happening. Lord no, that would make it worse. Bright lights and sterile pointy things that could slice your throat? No, it’s best not to know what’s coming! So I try to think of other things while in the chair, to visualize a peaceful scene, like me on a beach walking hand in hand with my husband. You know, stuff like that. But it doesn’t always work. Sometimes the face of God appears out of nowhere, like an omen, and then I feel it: the pinch of a nerve at the root of the tooth the dentist is working on. My hands grip the arms of the chair and I white-knuckle it until that pain goes away. I can almost see God laughing at my dramatic response, no doubt telling all the angels what a wussy I am, and don’t I see what’s going on the world? Third world problems, He thinks to himself.

I’m getting a crown right now, and no, not the royal kind, the expensive kind. And while my dentist was drilling my fake tooth, standing beside me with drill and tooth in hand, I asked him quite sincerely, “Is there any way I could just take all my teeth out so you could work on them like that?” “Ohhh,” he laughed, “in a perfect world Martha!” Damn, I said to myself. So I’ll be selling my firstborn in order to pay for my crown, and I don’t even get to show it off unless I walk around pointing it out to everyone. I don’t think, in general, people would go for that. Mouths are meant to be kept closed, or at least partially closed, at all times. I guess my new crown will not be something I can flaunt.

I always thought I had a good set of teeth. I mean, they’re pretty straight. But lately I’ve found I have teeth like my mom, in that some of them kind of overlap others. It must be a genetic thing. I, too, am like my mother in the sense that she never went to the dentist unless it was an emergency. My father would go often. He was either brave or crazy, not sure which, but he would never get his mouth frozen. He would have work done without anesthetic! My father and I differ drastically on this point, even though those needles make my heart pound! I wonder if he enjoyed Marathon Man? He may have. So I suppose I’ve inherited my lack of desire to go to the dentist from my Mom. I never saw her go! Even though she made us all go to ‘cigarette dentist’. I guess it was like the threat of torture to us kids – you better behave or I’ll send you to the dentist! Sounds funny now when I think of it, but maybe there’s just a little bit of truth to that?

Anyway, I can’t complain too much, I’ve been going to the same dental clinic for many years. They know me, my husband and our children. They’re like family to us, and even though Dr. Faguy retired a few years ago, his replacement, Dr. Taouk, is just as wonderful. Both men make you feel as comfortable as possible while in their chair. And the staff who work there, Madeleine, Sue, Angie, Johanne and Shani, are all so good to us. If only we could just take our teeth out and leave them with the receptionist and go back a couple hours later and pick them up. Wow, that would be awesome. Unfortunately that won’t be happening anytime soon!

So I’m just grateful things have gotten better for us as far as dentists go. If I’m going to have massive panic attacks, I’m glad it’ll be with these people and not Dr. Cigarette! Or that dentist from Marathon Man. Phew!

Photo Credit

Photo from Pexels – free for commercial use

This was what we did when we were young and foolish and had no plans for the future. It was during one of these nights that I met a young man. He was nineteen at the time. I saw him standing at the entrance to the bar under a stark bright light. He stood there for some time before he walked toward our table. I was a regular at this bar, and knew pretty much who was who. I hadn’t seen this young man before, and I was so taken with him. He was attractive, in a bad-boy kind of way. He had long hair, clean, and obviously blow-dried to perfection. His eyes were a piercing blue and he had a warm, delicious smile that melted my heart. He was boyish, yet had a manly presence about him. He was tall and carried himself with purpose. 

The girls and I shared the same table every weekend. This was our favorite bar, a bar where the music was loud and the beer on tap. We knew pretty much every waiter in the place by name. Lionel and Maurice were two of our favorites. Lionel was more serious and probably wondered what each of us would make of ourselves, and if his children were doing the same thing – drinking their young lives away in a dark, smelly bar, weekend after weekend. Maurice was the opposite. The man was clearly out to make money and he must have made a bundle in tips in that place, night after night.

On this particular night, when this blue-eyed boy walked in, my heart raced. It skipped a beat. I felt like I’d known him forever. He captured my heart. There was a sweetness to him, a calm that was mysterious in some way. I felt like we’d known each other before. Perhaps in a past life we’d been lovers, in Rome or Paris, somewhere romantic where our love had been extinguished by prejudice or pride. But we found each other again.

We were the tail end of the boomers and there were a lot of us. In our town, the bars were plenty and the beer was flowing. We were young and stupid and our hormones were soaring. Maybe we were looking for something? What it was I still, to this day, have no idea. It was 1978 and we had our whole lives ahead of us. What do you do with yourself at that age? You rebel. You squirm and carry on like a crazy person until you figure it out. You go through the pain of being lost, of being nobody. You look for love. You look for a way to be carried through the journey that is life, that’s so terrifying at that young age.

I found love. With him, the blue-eyed boy. Our relationship went on for many years without a commitment until we were married in 1984. I married this young man on the premise we’d have a good life together. I married him because I loved him with all my heart and knew that love conquered all. I knew that he loved me too, just as furiously, and that we’d find a way to make a life together.

Through thick and thin, we’ve lived almost forty years, side by side. We’ve conquered addiction, loss, and sorrow. We’ve raised two beautiful children, a son and a daughter, who contribute to society and who, in their own right, have made a mark on the world. And to our delight, we have a beautiful grandson who is our pride and joy. Not bad for a couple who met in a bar. Who could predict what our future would hold? It’s been a life of laughter and love, a life I would not trade for fame or fortune. The connection this blue-eyed boy and I have is far more precious than anything I can think of in the world today.

Now in our sixties, we are on a different path. This path is one of solace and silence. A path that neither he nor I would ever have chosen, yet here we are. He’s living with stage 4 lung cancer. My, how things can change within minutes; how life can look so different when struck with the idea of mortality. I still see the blue-eyed boy, looking at me with hope and love. We carry on with the knowledge that time is an enemy we cannot deny, and each day we are grateful. Grateful to have each other, to have someone to cheer us on when it seems we’re all alone.

All those years we’ve left behind us are the years that made us who we are today. My blue-eyed boy is still as handsome and sweet as he was when I first met him. Although we’ve changed quite a bit over the years, I still see that young man and am thankful for this life we’ve built together.

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

When people die, their deaths haunt me. I think about them all the time, especially those who died young, or whose lives were taken by disease or accident. When I see a blue sky on a crisp, fall day, my mind wanders to those who have died and I always think to myself, Oh, you are missing the most gorgeous day today. It saddens me that they are unable to witness the beauty of that perfect blue sky, or of the bright orange, yellow and red leaves on the trees.

I suppose some people would call me sensitive. I would have said that about myself years ago. Today, I’d call it conscious. I’m very conscious of my life, of myself and of the world. I see it for what it is, and have given up the rose-colored glasses. Things don’t really shock me anymore. People’s situations don’t send me running the other way. But it doesn’t mean I don’t question their situations in my mind or feel upset by their decisions. I just know I’m more conscious of the elements of emotion. 

As a young adult I was driven by the works of The Beat Generation, the poets and writers who wrote, lived and breathed life and made it bigger than it was; those writers who burned with life. I, too, wanted to go, go, go. And I did, until I burned out. That kind of lifestyle can get you killed.

Each of us has a different philosophy of life. I used to get hooked on different gurus, people that I admired, people I thought were smarter and more talented than I was. I read books by the dozens about all kinds of interesting people and their lives. Now, as I get older, I realize my life is just as interesting, just as complicated and just as creative as anyone else’s. I see that I’m the creator, the visionary of my own life. All of those writers and scientists and creative people brought me here, to this place, where I can now rightfully claim a piece of my own heart’s desire.

My passion for life has seen me through many ups and downs. Always by my side are my friends and loved ones, urging me on. They are my soldiers, the ones who push me forward. And through our connections and our passions, whatever they may be, we carry on this journey of life, thrilled to have compatriots to negotiate the dark side of life with and to help us into the light.

Life is so sweet. There is so much to do and, it seems, so little time. As I age, time slips by so quickly; it’s almost frightening. Will I ever get to do the things I want to do before I die? Will I see my grandchildren and watch them grow? Will I see the parts of the world I have always wanted to see? Will I always be surrounded by friends and loved ones alike?

I have passion for being in the world, being in the fight, being in love, or just being. I want to continue to discover new and wonderful things every single day! Like today, for instance. I learned a new word: sate. It was a word my daughter used in an essay. I thought it was a spelling mistake, but no, she quickly pointed out it was a word. I was thrilled!

So, the journey never ends. It changes constantly. Life would be pretty dull if it didn’t. I can only be thankful for those small things that help us grow, like trees in the fall, shedding their leaves, awaiting rebirth in spring. Like I do. Every day I hope and pray that each day will be a rebirth of my heart’s desires.

Photo Credit

Photo by Martha Farley – all rights reserved

This is an article I wrote that was printed in The Gazette in 2011 (now the Montreal Gazette), and turned out to be a fitting follow-up to one I’d previously written, which they printed eight years earlier in 2003.

It’s about how a friend and I became teenagers again for one magical night, how we managed to have the best time ever, and how it all came together.

(This article was originally printed in The Gazette in 2011 and has been edited for online publication at Life As A Human.)

* * *

Back in the spring of 2003, I wrote an article for The Gazette in the ‘Life Stories’ section called “What if I Wear Black and Sing in a Rock Band?” It was a story about hitting my forties and being cool. Now that I’m in my fifties, I still want to be cool and, well, when an opportunity arises, you gotta reach for that brass ring, as Holden Caufield would say. So when I heard that Fucked Up was the backup band for a Foo Fighters show on August 10th, I called my friend Alison. Her nephew, Damian Abraham, is the frontman for Fucked Up, a hardcore punk rock band from the Toronto area that has risen to success after many years of playing countless venues, including the washroom of MTV. You could say they’ve paid their dues.

Several months after asking Al about the upcoming show, she emailed me to say she had talked to Damian and we were going! I was ecstatic; how cool is that? She wasn’t sure where the seats were and I told her I didn’t care, as long as we were going. Now, I have to tell you, my friend Al has been a music aficionado for as long as I’ve known her; we grew up in Pointe Claire, and became friends when we were kids.

A couple of days before the show, Al messaged me on Facebook to tell me we were going backstage. I just about fell out of my chair! That was huge – these things don’t happen to the likes of moi! Not to mention, both my kids are huge fans of Fucked Up and Foo Fighters.

Alison picked me up the day of the concert and I felt like we were teenagers again. It had been a while since just the two of us had been out partying together. Al is a shameless groupie. She travels everywhere in her SUV and has met so many people. I could make a list here but let’s just say, when Alison gets something in her head, she does it.

I’ll use the movie Almost Famous to illustrate our night at the Bell Center: Alison is Penny Lane (played by Kate Hudson in the movie) and I’m William (played by Patrick Fugit), the inexperienced fifteen-year-old journalist trying to write the best rock and roll piece ever. Following Al around that arena was exhausting. I have to tell you, too, she’s in much better shape than I am. I fell down about three times during the entire walkabout backstage, mostly falling down stairs (okay, the wine might have had something to do with it but we won’t discuss that here.) It was like being in boot camp for old rockers, trying to keep up with her. And just like Penny Lane in the movie, Al seemed to know her way around the place.

After we watched Fucked Up do their set, we went backstage to meet them. They were very gracious and signed a shirt for my son and Damian signed the new CD they just released called David Comes Alive (which is brilliant, by the way). While we were talking to the band, Damian said, “Okay, I have to go see Foo Fighters, Sandra (from Fucked Up) hasn’t met them yet.” So Al said to me, “Come on, Marth” and she just followed Damian. I lagged behind with Al, who was prompting me to hurry up. I was just hoping I wouldn’t fall again, break a leg and miss the rest of the night. On the way to Foo Fighters’ dressing room, we bumped into one of the band members from Doughboys who Al later told me was the uncle of a friend of her son’s. The music world, I surmised, is smaller than we realize.

At this point, Foo Fighters were just preparing to go onstage. I was like William – completely baffled at the fact I was in Foo Fighters’ dressing room with Fucked Up! I thought for a minute there would be a phone call from my mother telling me not to do drugs. Yes, I felt like a kid. But how cool is that? It was pretty cool! I got to meet Dave Grohl, Nate and Taylor. Because the band was just heading onstage, they didn’t have a lot of time, but they were kind enough to take pictures with us and of course I told Dave that I loved him. He said, “I love you too”.

I think meeting a rock band was just as cool as singing in one, even when you’re fifty-something years old. Maybe even better – there’s no pressure. Just pinch me! Even two days later, I’m still on a high from it all!

Thanks Penny (aka Al) for the chance to be William and live out my Almost Famous fantasy. And thanks to those amazing and clearly-generous bands for entertaining us with some of the best rock and roll I’ve heard in a long while.

You made this old rocker feel fifteen again!

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Sunday, August 2nd

What a beautiful day. It was my partner’s birthday, but I unfortunately had to work in the morning. After I came home we were to go to his parents’ house for a birthday dinner. All of us outside in our masks, he was inside talking to his mom and preparing the meal.

He had really wanted to cook for everyone. We love Korean style barbecue and had decided to treat his family to it, his parents and sister with her boyfriend. Surprisingly we were also joined by his youngest sister who had come to visit from the other side of the country with her lovely dog, that my partner just adores.

After we ate dinner his sister asked, “What did you learn this year and what are you looking forward to this next one?”

He spoke of how he had learned things at his job and learned more about himself and what he was capable of. For next year though, what he was looking most forward to,

“Is getting married.” He pulled his late grandmother’s ring from his pocket and proposed right there in the grass.

I cried in excitement and had the ring on as soon as I could.

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course!”

All of the girls screamed in excitement as one sister yelled, “Get a phone! Get a phone!” To capture the moment.

Monday, August 3rd

Work during the pandemic was different in a wide variety of ways. I was not working the same schedule, I was not doing the job I had been promoted to, and I was working alone. As the front facing associate I was growing concerned for my own attitude towards those that would come in.

I worked my shift but knew I couldn’t continue running the way I had been. I decided to take a stand and have a conversation directly with human resources. In short, I explained that there had to be a change for me, otherwise I couldn’t continue. I needed back up, I needed help, the whole department needed a break.

I left feeling confident and scared, but at least I knew I had made a statement.

Tuesday, August 4th

Back to work in the morning, I was running a bit late and rushed out the door. I live fairly close to my work so I only needed five minutes, but only had about 15. My first turn onto the major road, I was blindsided by the sun. I tried to squint past it to no avail.

I approached the light going the 40 mph speed limit when I pushed on the break because I could not see. Unfortunately I made this choice quite a bit too late and slammed right into the back of a truck.

My car was totaled and could not move, I shook on the sidewalk as we both called the police and stumbled through the paperwork as it came. I called my work frantic, at first thinking I would still go in.

I didn’t, thankfully there was someone to cover my shift and I was allowed to go home (after much waiting and conversation with police). I was whip-lashed and car-less.

A quick visit to urgent care during the day, no fractures, yay! A few calls to the insurance company, and a call from my general manager. The pain wasn’t too severe but it was a scary day.

I felt even more fortunate when all three of my managers reached out to me to check in and let me know to take another day to rest. My now fiance had to go to work but he set me up for success before he left. I was sprawled on the couch and taking the day to sort out a rental and other details from the insurance.

Wednesday, August 5th

Since I had the day off to rest I had my fiance take me to get my temporary rental car. What a beauty! A bright orange Dodge Challenger – newer than anything I could hope to afford. I drove it a little, but the fear that comes from an accident can be even more crippling than an injury.

I took hot baths and prepared to work the next day. Normally I had Thursdays off, but I had been working with my team to try and give them some time off as well. Imagine how terrible I felt when I thought my accident had made them work extra, however other members of our team stepped up so my coworkers could rest as well.

Thursday, August 6th

The news of my engagement was quickly overshadowed by my car wreck. It was another standard day of work, making sure all the little details were complete, but also not working too hard since I would be back on Sunday to make sure everything was in place.

Ten minutes before my shift was over I was called into my general manager’s office, and told not to clock out first.

After some confusing rhetoric I finally realized I was being laid off. The shock was painful at first, but ultimately we agreed it was for the best. I wouldn’t have to make the decision to quit, I would be eligible for benefits, and would be okay.

The heartache was real between the three of us, my manager, my HR, and me. I had been there for three years and the separation was sudden. That was my last day.

Friday, August 7th

I would have been off work regardless, but it was still sinking in that I wouldn’t be waking up early on Sunday.

I got the call from my insurance that the car was a total loss, not at all surprising. What was surprising was that the car had been valued over what I owed and the loan would be entirely paid off.

Not only would the car be paid off, but I would receive a small pay out of what was left over! Of course the rental car would have to go back, but they were kind enough to let me keep it for an extra five days (though I wouldn’t need it considering I was unemployed).

Saturday, August 8th

I had survived. I made it. But more importantly, I had a positive outlook. Every obstacle became a positive for me, given the week had started so perfectly I couldn’t let these events bring me down.

1. Car payment is gone, since I’m unemployed I wouldn’t have been able to afford those payments.
2. The $200 insurance bill is now only $50 because I’m not insuring a car
3. I don’t have to go back to a job I was miserable doing
4. I can apply for benefits

Though I felt low about none of this being on my own terms, I had to accept that they had happened and that they were good things. Even the most unfortunate events can turn out to be positive.

Most importantly, this week brought my fiance and I even closer as we prepare for our journey to continue in marriage.

Photo Credit

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Guest Author Bio
Elena Hughes

Elena is a professional blogger dedicated to the spread of optimism with her writing. Her life experiences have taught her how to always see the positive in desperate times. She shares her experiences and knowledge regularly on her blog site Lady’s Writing while helping others build their websites for success. When she’s not writing lifestyle or industry blogs, she is reviewing a movie for another blog!

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In our house, this was always a very special time for our family. The tree always stood in the same corner every year for as long as I can remember. My mother would prepare months in advance, baking and cooking and planning. The house was always spit-shined! Not one nook or cranny would go untouched. My father would haul out the toughest dirt removers, vacuums and rags to make sure there was not one spot or piece of dust or dirt anywhere in our house.

We always celebrated with friends and family Christmas Eve, and then everyone was welcome after midnight mass. Food and drinks were served until all hours of the morning, as guests, friends and family chatted and sang and enjoyed the festivities.

I was 16, the youngest, and was waiting hopelessly for the party to end this particular Christmas Eve, knowing that Christmas morning would soon arrive. I was hoping I would find what I had asked for under the tree. Often, Christmas mornings would turn into afternoons, as the majority of the household would be still recovering from the night before. So more often than not I had to wait patiently! In the early hours of Christmas morning my dad would always be cleaning and getting ready for the next onslaught of visitors. I decided to join him this morning, and we chatted as I helped him carry dishes to the sink, all the while wondering what was waiting for me under the tree.

Well, when gifts were finally being opened this particular Christmas, I came across a huge box under the tree for me. All I could think of was that maybe my parents bought me the stereo I had been dreaming about! I opened the box and discovered it was far from a stereo. What was in that big box? A suitcase. They bought me a suitcase?? I thought in disbelief. I stood over the horrible orange suitcase and wondered if perhaps it was some sort of joke and my real gift was inside the case. So I quickly popped open the bag, only to find it empty. I guess this is it, Martha, I thought to myself. I looked at my parents, who were busy talking to my brothers, and said thank you to them. I must have had a very strange and quizzical look on my face because my Dad started to laugh.

“Do you like your gift, Martha?” he asked.

“Very nice Dad, thanks. Is this some sort of a hint??” I responded jokingly.

My brother John looked on, smirking at what I got under the tree. I would have preferred underwear or socks.

“Martha, we thought that might come in handy for you sometime down the road,” my mother said while smoking her cigarette and rubbing her eyes from lack of sleep.

“Well, thanks Mom, should I start packing today??”

Both of my brothers laughed. I’m sure they would have been happy to get rid of their little sister – the sooner the better.

“Don’t be silly,” Mom said. “We just saw it on sale and figured why not get that for Martha. We know how you like to go and visit Lebby and, well, you know your father and I when we see a deal. We can’t pass it up.”

“I know Mom, I was just kind of hoping you might have seen a stereo on sale somewhere.”

I’m not really sure what got into my parents that Christmas, but a bright orange suitcase was one of the worst gifts I think I have ever received. To top it all off, in all the years I had that suitcase, I never used it. Not once. Today, my daughter’s Barbies are stored in it. I suppose, as my Mom told me, they were just being practical. But in my opinion, there’s practical and then there’s just plain crazy. At sixteen, a suitcase was really not at the top of my wish list.

After receiving the gaudy orange suitcase, gift opening on Christmas mornings thereafter was always done with trepidation. What could possibly be under the tree next, waiting for me? Yes, my parents were always thinking on the practical side. And I have to admit, gift opening was never dull on Christmas morning, even if it meant unwrapping the occasional suitcase. At least we were always surprised!

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Lebby was my bohemian. Her large, gold-hoop earrings dangled loosely around her thin neck. Her printed dress oozed many colors, each one bleeding into the other, her cigarette held in her long fingers, nails painted. Just like in the fashion magazines, Lebby exuded exotic; the epitome of sophistication; an Andy Warhol wanna-be. She was a sixties beauty with her dark hair cut short, much like Twiggy’s, and big sunglasses on, the ones that covered most of her face. She took long hauls of her cigarette when she would look out into the street from her chair in the living room.

She was my bohemian; a rhapsody in color. She was older than I was by eleven years and I yearned to be like her. I wanted to spend time with her, this mysterious young woman named Lebby who lived in our house. She had arrived years before as an infant, my mother’s sister’s child. And she had stayed, here in Montreal. As time went by, though, she decided to leave us for good and move back to Toronto with her mother. When she would come back to Montreal to visit I would show her my wardrobe, new clothes handed down to me from various friends of my mother’s. I would stand on the bed singing “Second Hand Rose”, modeling my latest outfits, and she would laugh and clap and tell me I looked fabulous.

She would talk to me about her adventures in Rio de Janeiro. She lived there for a year with her husband at the time. Their relationship didn’t last long and before I knew it she was living in Scotland and sending me fabulous makeup from London, England, the top fashion haven of the world. Not to mention it was the home of the Beatles.

“I’m never getting married,” I would tell her on our visits. This, after listening to her and her girlfriend ruminate over their love lives. “Oh, and I am never, ever having kids,” I would add. She would laugh and light another smoke. “Sure you will,” she would tell me. “Don’t listen to us,” pointing to her girlfriend, “we are very bad examples.” But I didn’t think so at all. I thought Lebby was the bee’s knees, the bomb, the crème de la crème. She just had this very provincial air about her. She was also very sweet and never made fun of me or thought I was too young or too naive. She made me feel grown up and smart.

When I would visit her when she lived in Ottawa she would take me to parties – parties in restaurants. I felt like a celebrity, because for me it was only celebrities that partied in restaurants. The people at these parties were different, too, with foreign-sounding names and they all talked with accents – German and British. My bohemian, that was Lebby. She could sit with the well-to-do Ivy League crowd or the hip and wild crowd.

She introduced me to the symphony, I might have been twelve at the time. I was sure I was going to be bored but I wasn’t. I had never been to a concert before. The music was overwhelming to me. It was just so powerful and loud and it jumped out at me. These small lessons in life with Lebby were delivered with love as gifts. They were tokens of joy for me that continued into adulthood.

As we grew older, our lives moved in directions neither one of us could have probably imagined. Yet the connection we had, deepened as we aged. As it turned out, we both became as traditional and ‘white bread’ as the next person. We both married and had children. But although our lives were mired in tradition and mediocrity, there was still that bohemian living within us that would emerge and transform us both.

Living with an alcoholic for several years certainly sent me down a path I would never have imagined going down. A path where light was muted and the shades were drawn. Without Lebby’s support, that path would have been more treacherous than I could have handled. Yet we muddled through the mire and dirt and ghostly skeletons in our closets. And we were transformed, emerging from that path, our spirits whole.

“What should we do for our ritual, Maaaa?” Lebby would ask over the phone. She and I had taken this journey together. It was a journey of discovery. Our rituals helped us see things more clearly and grounded us as we tried to find meaning in our lives. Having given up on her corporate job, Lebby now embarked on her passion – she started to paint. Using different techniques and mediums, the color was no longer printed on her gorgeous dresses but appeared now on canvases.

The two of us were sitting in her living room one night, the heat spilling into the room even with the air conditioning on. It was hot. The humidity and heat just seemed to bring out a ritual for us that night. I grabbed a huge stainless steel bowl, cold and lovely to the touch, and on that hot night I started to sing. I didn’t sing anything in particular, words just came out in that kind of sing-song sort of way. The bowl seemed to sing too, beneath my touch. Slowly, the sound from the bowl and my singing grew louder and louder. Lebby joined in, grabbing a pot as well. Before we knew it the two of us were caught up in a sort of ritualistic drumming session with stainless steel. It didn’t matter what we were singing, what mattered was the pounding of the bowls, the irresistible desire to smack the hell out of them as loudly and as powerfully as we could. We became the music. Like the symphony of years gone by, we were the music. The jazz of life.

Lebby is still my bohemian, and the music of life continues to play on. Her hair has changed to grey but I would prefer to say it’s silver. She stands at her easel and studies her work; immerses herself in it. Her studio is filled with light as the sun shines through the glass windows. A paintbrush is now in her long fingers rather than a cigarette. The smell of garlic is in the air, as there is always something cooking in the kitchen. Music is playing quietly on the CD player in the background, the sound of Neil Diamond, or is it Paul Simon? Art books are piled in every corner of her studio. Gold hoops have been replaced with delicate studs. Each day I am thankful that I have this lovely woman in my life, a woman who watched me grow up and who connected me to things that I would not have otherwise known about. 

Lebby looks at her canvas and splashes orange across it. “Isn’t that just the most scrumptious color Maaaaa?” she says out loud. “It sure is,” I reply.

Photo Credit

Photo courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved